


blood runs fast

by perfectlystill



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, and tagging is Impossible, but just know that i am Not Ok, listen im Not Ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple truth: Bellamy grows accustoming to thinking about his sister all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood runs fast

**Author's Note:**

> i am harmed. title from Ingrid Michaelson's "Warpath." i own nothing except my own meltdown.

**1.**

He finds her lying on a pile of leaves, hair greasy and stringy. Her face has gone pale. There’s a cut on her lip, blood dried. 

He grabs her hand, squeezes, presses the pad of his thumb against the wound. When he speaks his voice is quiet but feral: “Who hurt you?”

Octavia closes her eyes, exhales, grimaces. She squeezes back, doesn’t say anything. 

 

**2.**

A simple truth: Bellamy grows accustoming to thinking about his sister all the time.

On the ark, when he isn’t with her, he worries. He worries she’ll get restless, get caught, get found, get locked up. When he’s with her, he wants to make her smile, laugh, loud and bright so it crinkles around her eyes. He wants her to feel safe in a way she never can. 

A simple truth: when you grow accustomed to thinking about someone all the time, you start thinking about them even when you shouldn’t. 

 

**3.**

He finds her sitting on his bed, sewing scraps of fabric together. Her hands aren’t very deft or nibble, even though their mother has been teaching her since she was little. She’s got too much pent up energy, Bellamy thinks. She doesn’t have the patience she should.

“What’re you making?” he asks.

She looks up and brushes her bangs off her forehead, sighs. “Nothing.”

“Mom will get angry if she finds out you’re wasting fabric.”

“I’m not,” she says. “I can use it to patch my dress. It’s too worn for anyone important, anyway.” Her finger runs over the material, the gray color faded. 

Bellamy sits next to her, toes off his shoes. “Your stitches are getting better.”

She looks at the crooked line, pulls out her most recent stitch. The white of the thread is too bright against the fabric. She purses her lips. “Thank you.”

 

**4.**

Octavia gets cold at night. 

As she gets older, she tries to pretend she doesn’t, but Bellamy can hear her blanket rustling, the creak when she rolls over, rolls into herself.

“O,” he whispers. The space is too small for it to sound quiet. “O.”

“What,” she croaks, too loud. He winces and she sits up. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Bellamy glances at their mother’s bed, at the crumpled sheets, remembers she’s not home yet, that she might not come home tonight at all. “Take Mom’s bed. It’s warmer than the floor.”

“She might come home,” Octavia says.

She believes that; he wishes he could believe it, too.

“Trade with me, then.”

“No, Bel. You have work tomorrow.” 

He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “Come on, get in.”

He can’t make out her expression in the dark, but he can see her hand move, the way her body shifts like she’s considering it. She exhales. “Fine, but don’t let me steal all the blankets.”

Bellamy smiles, moves so he’s pressed against the wall. Octavia climbs in, tries to spread her small sheet out so it falls over both of them.

Bellamy doesn’t sleep, but Octavia does, curls her body against his, her blanket wrapped around her, his almost fitting over both of them. She’s warm except for her feet pressed against his shins. She’s smaller than he expected because he remembers her as a baby, as a toddler, but she’s still small, even in her sleep she curls up like she’s trying not to be seen. 

He brushes some hair off her forehead, lets his fingertips linger on her skin.

 

**5.**

He tells her once: “You’re the only other person who knows what it’s like to have a sibling.”

“I know,” she says, crumbling her piece of biscuit onto the table. 

“We’re special.” He pauses, waits for her to look at him. “You’re special.”

Octavia blinks, bites on her bottom lip. 

“You’re special,” he says again, fond and affectionate, the words light but heavy on his tongue. “You’re special to me.”

 

**6.**

The first girl he kisses has black hair that barely hits her shoulder. She smells like oil and soap and Bellamy knows her father is a low-level mechanic. She flutters her eyes, smiles crooked and touches his arm. 

She leans up on her tiptoes; he can feel her breath on her face. He just closes the gap. 

He doesn’t talk to her the next day, and he ducks around a corner when he sees her.

 

**7.**

When he sees Octavia bleeding, cut wide but shallow, his chest constricts, the air thickens, and his head spins. He has to close his eyes, but he has to open them, has to know she’s still there. 

He takes care of her, has to take care of her because no one else will. He has to take care of her because he doesn’t trust anyone else with her, to touch her and heal her with gentle hands, with soft fingers and soft eyes.

He takes care of her because she’s his sister.

He sneaks outside of camp in the night, vomits.

 

 **8.**

His mother tells him: “Your sister. Your responsibility.”

Octavia tells him: “I don’t need you to protect me.”

 

**9.**

Octavia asks if he knows how to braid hair, points to a picture of a girl with red hair. Bellamy has never seen a girl with red hair before. 

“That’s something you should ask Mom,” he says. 

“She’s not here.”

Bellamy laughs, rolls his eyes. “Then you can wait until she gets back.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” she says, running her finger over the girl's face, over the braid resting over her shoulder. Octavia frowns and her eyes grow glassy.

“What’s wrong?” He wraps his fingers around her wrist and feels her heartbeat under his thumb.

“I’m just tired.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m so tired, Bel.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I can try.” He clears his throat. “I can try to braid your hair.”

“Thank you,” she says, the words wet. 

It takes 20 minutes and the braid doesn’t look anything like the one on the girl with red hair, but Octavia almost smiles, eyes bright. “Thank you,” she says again, pressing her fingers against her hair. “I love it.”

 

**10.**

“You’re the only boy I know,” Octavia tells him, grinning wryly. “That’s a little weird, right?”

He swallows, looks at her mouth. “A little.”

 

**11.**

The first girl he fucks has long blonde hair that hits at the small of her back.

She’s younger, and when he pushes in to her he can’t even remember her name. 

He wants to ask, but she’s wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his spine. He wants to ask but she’s breathing heavy and her eyes are screwed shut. He wants to ask but he thinks it would be rude.

When it’s over she kicks him out, kisses his cheek, her lips dry and chapped against his skin.

He thinks she probably doesn’t know his name either. 

He can't decided if it makes him feel better or worse.

 

**12.**

“You’re always coming home to me,” Octavia says. She laughs, presses her palm against her mouth to muffle it. 

“You’re always waiting for me to come home,” Bellamy answers. He slips off his jacket. There’s a hole in the armpit.

“Do you want me to fix it?” She gets up, pokes her finger through the tear. 

“It’s fine.” He touches her shoulder as he brushes past her, sits down. His body feels heavy. “I don’t want you to waste your time.”

She bites her lip, still looking at his jacket. “Are you saying this because Mom only gives me the terrible fabric?”

“No,” he says. “I’d rather just talk to you.”

“Well.” She grips the fabric tighter, grabs the sewing kit and starts shuffling through it. “I’d rather feel useful.”

He watches the arch of her back. He can see her spine through her dress, thinks about pressing his fingers between the ridges. “If you insist.”

She turns to look at him, hair fanning out around her, mouth quirking up. “I do.”

 

**13.**

He presses the back of his hand against her forehead. Her skin is clammy and her eyes are wide, scared. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re going to be okay, Octavia. I promise.”

He picks her up from where she’s lying on the ground with her blanket. It’s soaked through with sweat. He puts her in his bed and wraps his sheet around her, grabs his mother’s and wraps it around her, too. She’s shaking like she’s cold, teeth chattering, but her skin is hot. He touches her forehead again, lets his fingertips trail along her hairline.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says again.

He feels helpless. 

“My head hurts.” Her voice cracks and she screws her eyes shut. Her breathing shallows.

Panic thuds in his heart and he feels his throat closing up. Octavia used to get sick -- all the time. When she was little his mother always talked about sweating her fevers out, would wrap her up and hold her tight, tell Bellamy that she’d be fine, voice thin and tight. 

Bellamy always believed her. 

Octavia hasn’t been sick in years.

He takes a deep breath, ignores the way his stomach rolls and his hands shake. Her gets into bed with her, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, tucks her head under his chin. “I love you,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “You have to be okay.”

 

**14.**

The year Octavia spends locked up is long. Every day drags, hopeless and exhausting.

He comes back to his small, empty, cold room. He lies down and clenches his fists.

Bellamy thinks if he wasn’t so angry, he’d probably let himself die. 

 

**15.**

Their mother gets her hands on a little, tinkling music player one year. Bellamy doesn’t ask her how she did it, is sure he doesn’t want to know. The songs sound old, Bellamy thinks, pre-bomb old, pre-war old. They come out of the thing quiet and tinny. If they speak over it they can’t hear anything. 

Bellamy and Octavia dance around the room to the music. She spins around and around, her arms thrown out to keep her balance. She laughs silently, face flushing. He grabs her hand, twirls her himself. He puts his hand on her waist, pulls her close, presses her body against his and smells her hair. He sways her around in a circle, feels her smile against his collarbone. He smiles small, too, closes his eyes and pretends they are somewhere else. He pretends they’re in a palace somewhere, at a ball, waltzing. He pretends they are free in a way they have never been.

He should pretend they are not related, but he doesn’t know how. 

When she says, quiet and muffled against his skin: “I love this song.”

He nods, splays his hand over the small of her back and presses her even closer. He doesn’t trust himself to respond. 

 

**16.**

He sees her again, dirt smeared on her face, under her fingernails, hair longer, knotted. Her face gaunt. 

He sees her again and cradles her face in his hands. He feels like he’s seeing her for the first time. Bellamy presses his mouth to Octavia’s forehead, lingers; to her nose, lingers. He looks at her, eyes wet and dark. He looks at her mouth, the slight upturn of her lips. She nods, hands wrapping around his wrists. 

He kisses her and it feels like breathing.

“I love you, big brother,” she says, forehead resting against his.

 

**17.**

Octavia stretches her arms above her head, body straight and rigid. “Do you think I’ll be like Mom?”

Bellamy freezes, sets the tablet down. “Why?”

She shrugs, slides her leg forward. “I was just thinking earlier, during the search, that I can’t really do anything. I’m going to be locked up here forever. But maybe, if I’m like Mom, I’ll be able to go out, you know?”

“No,” he says, voice stern. Octavia’s eyes widen almost like she’s scared. “You won’t be like Mom.”

“What are you gonna do, Bel?” She shakes her shoulders out, rolls her neck. “You won’t be able to get married, have kids. Not if you’re hiding me every day. I don’t want that for you.”

He looks at her, feels his resolve soften. “I don’t need those things.”

“It’d be easier, though. If I could…” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, lifts her heels off the ground. 

“It wouldn’t be.”

“Not at first, but. I could figure something out.” 

Bellamy inhales and rolls his shoulders back, his entire body too tense. “I only want you to be safe.”

She swallows, nods. “But, I mean, if I got someone with enough power I would be sa—”

“No!” He slams his fist against the table and it rattles. Octavia takes a step backwards. “No. You won’t. I won’t let you.”

She tightens her jaw. 

 

**18.**

Finn’s face contorts angrily when he says: “You’d kill us all to save Octavia.” 

Bellamy narrows his eyes, pushes past him, hard. “Good thing I don’t have to.”

 

**19.**

He stares at the ceiling, listens to the whir of the ark. Their mother has never been gone this long. She has stopped sneaking back in at night, but Bellamy listens for her footsteps anyway. 

He hears Octavia sleeping in their mother’s bed, sees her lying on her side, her mouth parted slightly, the sheets falling down by her hip. He closes his eyes, grips at the bed with his hands until his knuckles hurt, until he feels like his fingers are cramping.

He hears her breathing quicken, get louder. “Bel,” she says. “Bellamy.” The syllables slur together, broken in her mouth. 

He looks at her again. She’s shifted, half her face pressed into the mattress. But she’s still asleep.

Bellamy rolls over, faces the wall. 

He does not touch himself. 

 

**20.**

The power in their section shuts off. 

Everything goes black and the sounds of the ark, alive and working, cease to permeate their home. 

Octavia freezes next to him, grabs his arm. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll fix it soon.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t let go of his arm. “Can you tell me a story?”

Bellamy rests his hand on her knee, blinks until his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Odysseus and Penelope loved each other very much. They got married, but soon after Odysseus leaves to fight in the Trojan War.

“While he’s gone, men pursue Penelope. They hope she’ll believe her husband has died so she will marry them instead. To keep from being forced to choose a suitor, she sews a burial shroud and says she’ll marry when it’s finished. But she’s sneaky, O. Every night she undoes part of the shroud so she will never finish it.”

“I like her,” Octavia says, her body pressed warm against his. The room is getting cooler.

“When Odysseus comes back, he pretends to be a beggar. He sees his wife has been faithful to him, and, possibly not knowing who he is, she tells him that she will marry whoever can string her husbands’ bow and shoot an arrow through 12 axe heads.”

Octavia hums. She laces her fingers through Bellamy’s and squeezes.

“Only Odysseus will be able to do it. Penelope’s smart enough to know it’s an impossible task for anyone else. And it is. And he does.”

“And they live happily ever after,” Octavia supplies. 

“Yes, they do.” 

She leans her head against his shoulder and her hair tickles his neck. “Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do people still love each other that much? Have that much faith in each other?” 

“I love you that much,” he whispers, lips barely moving. He can see his breath when he talks.

Octavia lifts her head. She kisses his cheek, pulls back and watches him carefully, like she’s searching for something. She leans in again, kisses his jaw.

Bellamy squeezes her hand, grits his teeth. “What are you doing?”

“I want to,” she says. 

He looks at her; the shadows paint her like something he’s never seen before. He swallows, nods.

He lets Octavia kiss him first, mouth a light press, tentative. He holds her face in his hands, kisses her back, deepens it. She is quieter than he can ever remember her being, almost like a ghost, but her fingers card through his hair and she licks at the seam of his mouth. 

 

**21.**

A simple lie: There are no other siblings in the world and no one can understand. No one can look at their relationship and make it wrong.

 

**22.**

“Guess what I did today?” Octavia holds something behind her back, bouncing on her toes. 

“What?” His mouth turns up, too fond. 

“I made myself a new dress.” She reveals the fabric, unrolls it from the ball she had it in. It’s a patchwork of old pieces, grey and blue, speckles of red and green. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice.”

“Nice?” She raises an eyebrow, hits his arm. “I spent so much time on it, Bel. I planned which scraps to put where.”

“I’m just worried it’s not thick enough to keep you warm.” He touches it, rubs the dress between his thumb and forefinger. It feels like paper, too thin. 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” She holds it against herself, smooths her hand over it. “I love it.”

He tilts his head, looks at the way her hair cascades over her shoulder. “It really is beautiful.”

She grins with her entire mouth, leaps forward to hug him.

He thinks she is the most alive person he knows. 

 

**23.**

The first time he sleeps with Octavia he does not take her dress off, just bunches it up above her stomach, presses a kiss to her bellybutton; bunches it up above her breasts, kisses her sternum. He kisses her neck, the bottom of her foot, her inner thigh.

They don’t say anything. 

He listens to the way her breathing quickens, the way it’s all he can hear, drumming loud against the back of his skull. He watches her pull her bottom lip into her mouth, the groans that escape the barrier. She flushes down her chest; goosebumps scatter themselves down her arms, her stomach, her legs. 

He kisses her and feels her tongue sweep brave against his teeth. He tastes her, focuses on her fingers in his hair, holding down her hips. He watches her face when she comes, mouth open but silent, the arch of her body. 

When she blinks open her eyes they’re blown and bright.

He doesn’t say anything, but he brushes her hair off her face and kisses her forehead, lets her small smile plant itself in his throat. 

 

**24.**

When he hears about the masquerade ball, all he can think is: Octavia loves to dance.


End file.
